Come Home
by Cobrilee
Summary: Stiles keeps texting Derek, but Derek doesn't answer, and Stiles is pissed. It's not like Derek to abandon the people who need him, and Stiles really needs Derek to come home. Part 2 of A Story In Texts.


**A/N: This can be read either as romantic in nature or strictly friendship/pack, whatever your preference is with Sterek. Clearly I am a diehard shipper, but I like the idea of it being somewhat ambiguous. :)**

 **Stiles: Well, you can come home now, Derek. The Desert Wolf came to Beacon Hills, so you and Braeden don't have to keep searching for her.**

He stares at the phone for a few moments, waiting to see if he'll get a reply. He knows he's fooling himself; Derek hasn't responded in six months. He doesn't blame the guy, really-Beacon Hills doesn't have many happy memories for him, and he probably used the Desert Wolf as an excuse to get the fuck outta Dodge when Braeden offered to let him tag along. It doesn't mean Stiles doesn't want him home.

Fuck. He hates that he misses Derek so much. Why does he miss Derek? Derek's an ass. Derek hates him.

 _No, he doesn't, you asshole_ , his brain counters. Stiles knows if his brain was a person, it would be sighing in exasperation and rolling its eyes at him. His brain sounds suspiciously like Lydia. _Derek stopped being an ass sometime around the Nogitsune. Maybe even earlier, you just weren't looking for it. And you know he stopped hating you long before then, if he ever hated you at all._

Shaking the thought off, Stiles angrily tosses his phone on his bed when it becomes apparent-as if he hadn't already known-that a reply will not be forthcoming. It's time to get ready for the pack meeting, anyway. He pulls a shirt on over his head and as it clears his face he hears a soft buzzing noise and he dives for the bed, scrambling to find the phone in his bedding, and seriously, he'd literally _just_ tossed it on the bed. How the hell did it disappear in a tangle of sheets?

Then he finds it and thumbs the screen open hopefully. Nothing. He's hearing things again. Of course his damn phone won't go off and show him the message he's been waiting to see for six months. **I'm coming home, Stiles. Miss you, buddy.** He snorts. Yeah, right, as if Derek fucking Hale would ever say something so sentimental.

 **Stiles: Where the hell are you, Derek? We miss you**. _I miss you._

He throws the phone back on the bed and when he thinks he hears it buzzing again, he ignores it. It's not real, and even if it is, it's not Derek. It never is.

lllll

 **Stiles: Yo, big guy, we could really use some assistance here. The Desert Wolf put Lydia and Mason in the hospital, and kidnapped Malia. Please send reinforcements, i.e., you and Braeden.**

Stiles nearly throws his phone this time, he's so angry and frustrated and fucking _scared_. He's never felt as terrified as when he saw Lydia unconscious in that hospital bed. The first time it had happened, she was the girl of his dreams and he couldn't imagine a world without her. This time she's his best friend and he can't imagine _his_ world without her. Her porcelain skin has turned waxy and she appears seconds from death. Melissa had assured him that she would be okay, but he can't believe it, not with the way she looks.

He sits forward, his elbows digging into his thighs and his chin in his hands, thumbs pressed into the underside of his chin while his index fingers curl around his mouth. Staring at the beautiful strawberry-blonde who he can only tell is alive by the slight rise and fall of her chest and the blips on the heart monitor. He's so furious he's practically vibrating, one knee bouncing erratically while he prays to a God he isn't even sure he believes in for her to wake up, to smile, to laugh, hell, to fucking give him that scathing smirk and airily dismiss him, the way she used to. _Anything_.

 **Stiles: Anytime, Derek.**

He knows he should be out with Scott and the others, looking for Malia. Technically she's still his girlfriend, sort of, and he feels horribly guilty that he's left the search for her up to his friends. But, this is _Lydia._ He likes Malia a lot, and he isn't entirely happy that their relationship seems to be on a downward spiral- _fuck that, Stilinski, when she finds out you stayed at Lydia's bedside instead of searching for her, that spiral is going to come to a dead stop when it crashes and burns_ -but he _loves_ Lydia. Not the way he used to, of course, but he loves her all the same. If… if anything happens to her, he needs to be here. He has to be with her if she doesn't make it. There really was no choice to make.

 **Stiles: Still waiting.**

He wants to believe that Derek is going to come back to them, to help, to be there when he's needed. Derek cares too much to let them down. He would deny it with his dying breath, but Stiles knows better. He's seen the lengths Derek will go to to protect his friends, and he has to hold on to the hope that the wolf will come back for them. He _has_ to.

 **Stiles: Come on, Hale, quit with the mysterious lone wolf bullshit. We fucking** _ **need**_ **you!**

Of course he doesn't get an answer. He wasn't expecting one, not really, but the rage overtakes him and he finally, finally throws his goddamn phone as far as he can. It hits the opposite wall of Lydia's hospital room, and even he can hear the crack as it splits. He watches dumbly as the phone falls to the floor, sealing its fate. It lies in a half-dozen pieces but he can't bring himself to care. Just like Derek, apparently.

lllll

 **Stiles: We defeated her. And we did it without you, because you weren't here for us when we needed you. Thanks, Sourwolf. Good to know who my real friends are. Am I bitter? Nooooo. (That was sarcasm, obvs. Fuck you, Derek.)**

It doesn't make him feel any better to rail at the wolf, who for all he knows hasn't read a single one of the texts he's sent in the last nine months. He doesn't know if Derek even still has a cell phone, or if he has one and he hasn't turned it on since he left, or what. He just knows he needed his friend and he wasn't there, and he's not once bothered to check in on them. For all he knows they've all been killed off one by one, or in a mass pack destruction. He hasn't cared enough to even make sure they're alive.

Stiles is determined that he's done giving Derek a chance to hurt him. No more texting. No more opening himself up to be ignored and rejected over and over again. Derek has apparently made his choice, and Stiles is _so_ over begging him to come home.

 **Stiles: Have a good life, Derek, wherever it takes you, since it clearly won't be back to Beacon Hills.**

He hates himself even as he's pressing send, knowing his attempt to snipe at the older man is petty and childish and desperate, and in direct contrast with the resolution he made just seconds earlier. It doesn't matter. He just can't seem to let this go. Can't let Derek go. Of course, he never could, even when he hated him. _You never hated him. You were afraid of him, you were angry at him, you wanted him to accept you as pack and as a friend, but you never hated him. Quit trying to lie to yourself, dumbass. It isn't going to hurt any less._

lllll

Stiles has written Derek off for good. He _has_. He'd swear it to anyone who asks, or who doesn't ask but maybe mentions his name casually, in passing. Stiles will tell them _all_ about how Derek Hale is dead to him.

Then Derek Hale shows up at his house, and all of a sudden Stiles isn't quite so sure he hates the wolf as much as he swore he did.

They stand there silently, staring at each other warily. Derek is leaning against the wall by his bedroom window, his eyes piercing into Stiles' soul even from across the room. Stiles' hand is still on the doorknob, hanging loosely, barely holding on by the tips of his fingers. He swallows past a suddenly dry throat, trying to get his voice to work. When it does, it comes out in a croak.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

If Derek feels guilty, he doesn't show it. His face is as blank and emotionless as it ever was. More so, probably, because before he would at least smirk or roll his eyes or scowl. Right now he looks as if he could have been made in some factory in China for all the life he displays.

"I got your texts."

Stiles scoffs. "Good for you. Were your thumbs broken? Fingers? Nose? You couldn't have pecked out some kind of reply to let me know you just didn't give enough of a damn about us to come back and help out when we needed you? God damn it, Derek, we did. We fucking _needed_ you!"

He's breathing harshly, not having planned for this conversation, feeling the anger rush out of him so fast and hard that it makes his throat ache and his chest burn. He's shaking, and Derek watches him carefully, but doesn't comment.

"I would have been here, if I could." There's no explanation, no excuses for why he couldn't, and Stiles is furious that he's expected to take the lame statement at face value.

"Go to hell, Derek!" he shouts. "We almost lost Mason and Malia. We almost lost _Lydia_ , because you apparently had other priorities!"

"Is she okay?" His voice is soft, as if he knows he has no right to ask, but does so anyway.

The rage blinds him. "Who are you kidding, Derek? If you cared you would have _been_ here!"

Derek opens his mouth as if he's going to offer an explanation and Stiles hates himself, but he's hoping. He's hoping that Derek can tell him _why_ , can restore his faith in his former alpha and help him not hate the man. Because he doesn't want to hate Derek. He _doesn't_. But right now, he can't _not_.

Then Derek's mouth snaps shut as regret burns in his eyes, and Stiles takes a step back, feeling sick. "I know you don't believe me, but I do care." His voice is still soft, barely a whisper, and Stiles shakes his head in disbelief.

"You're right, I don't believe you. Until you tell me why you couldn't be here, what was so much more important than your friends who were fighting for their lives, no, I'll never believe that you care." He's sneering, and he sees the hurt on Derek's face, but he steels himself against it. He's been hurting for a _year_. Derek can hurt now, too.

"I can't tell you right now." The admission seems torn from him unwillingly. "I don't deserve it, but can you trust that I had my reasons?"

Stiles stares at him, wanting to snarl that no, he can't. He can't trust a man who would abandon people who love and miss and need him. But Derek has always had his reasons, for everything. And Stiles _wants_ to believe that whatever it is, it's a good one. "Will you tell me eventually?" There's a pause, then Derek is nodding hesitantly. Stiles exhales. "When did you get my texts?"

The answer is swift. "Yesterday. I came straight here."

He slumps; he doesn't have werewolf hearing and can't know if Derek's heart skipped a beat or is as steady and unwavering as Stiles' is erratic, but he can see it in his eyes. Derek's eyes are open, honest, and pleading. Stiles believes him. He doesn't know whether to curse that Derek overcame his anger so easily, or relieved that he's been given a reason to not hate him. After all, that was what he had wanted.

"I'm still mad as hell at you."

He nods. "I know. I expect that."

"Why did you come to me?" Stiles is genuinely curious about that. He could have gone to Scott, as the alpha. He could have gone to Lydia to make sure she's okay, or Malia, because she's family. Or hell, even Peter, who has always been the one to have his finger on the pulse of whatever was going on, whether he was doing something about it or not.

Derek's watching him closely. "You're the only one who wanted me here."

He barks out a sharp, surprised laugh. "You can't expect me to believe that!"

"No one else contacted me. Peter… Peter knew why I wouldn't respond, and that it would be useless to try. No one else even tried, and yet it took _you_ nine months to give up on me."

Stiles doesn't know what to say. "Yeah, well, we were desperate," he mutters. It doesn't really explain anything, not the truth of it, anyway.

His lips curve, just the tiniest bit, but the hint of a smile has something loosening in Stiles' chest. "I missed you too, Stiles."

He glares. "I never said I missed you."

"You didn't have to." The words are simple, inarguable, and before Stiles can really think about what he's doing, he's crossing the room and throwing his arms around Derek's waist and tucking his face into the hollow between his neck and shoulder. The wolf stiffens, and after a moment his arms come up to loosely encircle Stiles' shoulders. He can feel the awkward patting between his shoulder blades.

"God damn it, Derek, I really fucking missed you. Don't leave again, okay?" He's trying to hold back tears, which he knows is stupid because Derek can smell them, but he's going to try not to lose it anyway. He needs to salvage _some_ of his dignity.

Derek's chest rises and falls as he sighs deeply. "No, Stiles, I'm not going to leave again." The patting evolves into a soothing rub, almost absent-minded. "I need you, too."

The admission rips at him and he can't help the tears that escape, feeling them trapped between his eyes and the warm skin of Derek's neck. "Good, it's settled. You don't leave me and I don't leave you."

Derek's arms tighten and they fall silent, Stiles not willing to pull away and Derek not willing to let him go even if he did. Neither of them minds. There will be plenty of time to talk, about everything.

 **A/N 2: I know it's kind of a cop-out that I didn't give Derek a reason for being gone, but I was sorting through different options and not really happy or interested in them, and then I realized that if I included one, it would take the story in a different direction. Besides, I kind of like the idea of letting my readers imagine what that reason might have been. In the long run, I felt it wasn't essential to the story so I didn't want to take away from what I was doing.**


End file.
